


The Hearts That Bend

by LazyWriterGirl



Series: Hearts Ablaze [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Grima, Alternate Universe - Some Characters Are Noble/Royal Now, Aversa and Robin are Actual Sisters, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Relationships Will Take Time To Get Anywhere, Robin Is A Child Genius, Validar Has Plans, f!robin - Freeform, longfic, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyWriterGirl/pseuds/LazyWriterGirl
Summary: The first Plegia-Ylisse war ends with the death of the Mad King Gangrel at the hands of the Exalt of Ylisse. The Exalt dies from his injuries, however, placing his young daughter on the Ylissen throne. Leaderless, and wary of choosing a nobody to rule them, the High Council of Plegia elects a new ruler from amongst the nobility.Their choice sets a little girl on a path one would never have dreamed for her, otherwise, putting her in the way of the Exalt and her court.All hail Robin, Child Queen of Plegia.





	1. Daughter of the Sand

Though it is powerful, House al Gimurei is the smallest of the Plegian high houses, and within the Hall of Deliberation its diminished size is obvious. Though there is room enough for ten representatives from each family, only three seats are filled—two, really, because Robin al Gimurei sits, still and quiet in her sister’s lap. She is but a child of four—still far too young to be more actively involved in the politics of her country—but she’s cleverer than most. It is a failing of many of the other houses that they do not understand just  _ how _ clever. 

Robin’s father calls her a genius, and her sister does too, and if that means that Robin can tell that the High Council is full of  _ imbeciles _ , then there can be no description more apt. Father has been teaching her, has been telling her the secrets of the High Council since she had begun to speak, early in her first year. Now she watches and half-listens as the various nobles pontificate from their families’ seats, and she is glad that she is deemed too young to participate.

This looks, in a word,  _ boring _ .

The men of the High Council are louder than usual, and little Robin can tell that something is wrong. She wishes that she had not been so bored, or else she would have known what it was that had caused such a fuss that men as big as—or in some cases, even larger—than her father are waving their arms all over the place and shouting as if they were misbehaving children. They’re shameful excuses for representatives of the remaining high houses of Plegia, but that isn’t her concern.

It also is not her concern that the women of the High Council watch on with secretive smirks on their lips as their men—their husbands and fathers and brothers and sons—argue loudly with each other. She wonders, if her mother had not died bringing her into the world, what this day might have been like with her mother seated with them. 

Would Aversa still love her as much? 

Would there be more children? 

Would mother be one of those women, secretive and quiet, or would she be like Father; calm, but ready to speak at a moment’s notice? 

Robin does not know, and she does not care, because such things are not her concern.

She’s not but a little darling of a girl, and her job—as Father is always sure to tell her before these meetings—is to sit quietly and listen, and make sure that she does not give anyone reason to question the breeding of those of House al Gimurei. As always, she finds offense in the reminder. She’s not like some of the other children of the high houses;  _ they _ laugh and make fools of themselves, much like their parents, but  _ she  _ won’t be so badly behaved. There, in her sister’s lap, Robin feels as if she’s watching a parodic performance—she wonders if the common folk of Plegia are aware that the lords and ladies they so admire act like mere  _ animals _ when in session.

How shameful.

It does look funny, though, and Robin continues to watch the men and their loud silliness from her spot perched on her sister’s lap, though her face is held carefully blank, the way she’s been taught to hold it. Aversa, who certainly understands what’s going on being eleven and already trusted to participate in politics, gently runs a hand through Robin’s hair. The quiet whisper of her nails on Robin’s scalp is familiar and comforting. Occasionally, she also murmurs a word of praise for Robin’s good behaviour, bending low to her sister’s ear, and Robin is pleased. She likes when her sister praises her. 

Especially in situations like this, where she can latch onto the kind words instead of the jabbering that has yet to cease.

“Did I not foresee this?” 

“I told you all that allowing that…that  _ fool _ to claim the kingship would ruin us!”

“At least the Exalt is dead!” 

“Countless Plegians have died out in the very desert that has always been our home!” 

“And all because of our king!”

“It is only by a  _ child’s _ grace that we do not all suffer Gangrel’s fate.”

“Gangrel? Pah! You dare speak that worm’s name?” 

Robin’s ears perk up slightly at that, and she stiffens even as Aversa pulls her in closer, preemptively trying to quiet the movement of Robin’s limbs. She looks up, into Aversa’s dark eyes, and stills. Her sister, for the first time today, looks…concerned. Gangrel is their king, that much she knows. Or at least, he  _ was _ their king. From the way that the High Council is speaking she thinks that maybe Gangrel is like Mother; no longer among the living.

Robin wonders why she isn’t more saddened by the news. Is it not the duty of a people to mourn the passing of their ruler? Is such an occasion not usually the reason for moments of solidarity amongst the people of the country? 

After a minute’s thought, she realizes two things: one, that it is not her concern, and two, that Gangrel was probably not very well-liked, which must have been the case if everybody is getting so angry about his failures instead of sad about his death.

She remembers—though not very clearly—the day a few months ago, when he had come to the temple to ask for Father’s blessing in some matter of his. She remembers it because he’d laid a heavy hand on her head and whispered into her ear, words she hadn’t understood. She remembers it because he’d pinched her cheek and then turned and said something rude to Aversa—at least, she thinks it must have been rude, because her sister had not looked at _all_ pleased—and then left. 

Robin hadn’t liked him very much, truth be told.

“What’s wrong wi’ King Gangrel?” she asks anyway, turning so that only her sister will catch her whisper.

Aversa only kisses her forehead. “Shh.” Her eyes are still tense.

Robin nods and turns to face the High Council again, looking for her friends in the crowd. They’re even smaller and younger than her, both only three years old, but they can talk—sort of—and they can play—kind of—and they’re the only children Father will let her talk to, so she loves them best. She sees Tharja sitting between her mother and father, staring at something in her lap and looking at her mother every so often. Looking at Robin sometimes. A swivel of her head, and Robin finds Henry sitting off to the side, a large space separating him from his mother and father for no clear reason. 

She would invite him to sit with her but Aversa is holding her in place; now isn’t the time, she thinks. In any other meeting of the High Council, the children would be allowed to roam but today…today just  _ feels _ different. And it isn’t just the shouting and the smirks. Everybody seems on edge for some reason. Not that Robin would know; she’s only four.

Suddenly, Father rises from his seat, his long arms motioning for a silence that comes more quickly than Robin thinks anybody expected. It’s because her father is an important man—she knows because that’s what Aversa tells her—and even though he is not a king, he has always been more respected than Gangrel. “Peace, my friends,” says Father in his calming voice. “We will lose nothing but precious time in arguing about our fallen king.”

“Lord al Gimurei is right, of course. We must, as High Council, do what is best for our great nation,” says Henry’s father as he rises to his feet. Father only nods at the other man, not bothering to correct his form of address. Robin knows that Lord al Gharab is always one of the first to side with Father, and that is why he can use Father’s name where others would have to use his title of Hierophant. 

From the looks of some of the men and women in the room, an alliance between House al Gharab and House al Gimurei is a formidable thing indeed.

“And what better could we do,” says Tharja’s mother, rising from her seat as well, “but to select a new ruler?” 

There is a moment where the crowd seems to draw in breath as a collective, perhaps in respect for the realization of the moment. Three of the most ancient houses of their court, all working in concert. Robin thinks that perhaps, had she not been a child protected by this alliance, she would be frightened. 

Robin has heard Father talk about their only true allies, the only two houses he deems worthy enough to align with his own. Henry’s is one. House al Asra, Tharja’s house, is the other. Like her own house, they are dying; in their cases, only one heir had been born (or at least, only one had lived past their first year). Robin sees another shiver pass through the rest of the High Council as eyes flicker from one of the standing figures to another, and then to another, and then back again. Henry is by his father's side now, somehow, smiling his impossible little smile.

Even amongst the nobility of Plegia, some houses are more noble, more  _ powerful _ than others.

The High Council collapses into a sea of whispers, and Robin finds the sound oddly lulling. She’s about to close her eyes for a nap when she notices Father looking at her, his eyes commanding her to sit up straight. Her back straightens—with a bit of a helpful push from Aversa—and Robin does her best to look…serious. She thinks that that’s the word for when Father wants her to look grown-up.

“But who amongst us?”

“We cannot afford to act rashly! Look at what our last decision has led us to!”

“Who could we possibly choose…?”

“Have you heard about the Ylissean Exalt?”

“We must come to a consensus!”

“Plegia cannot remain leaderless for much longer.”

“Silence, please, my friends,” says Father, and Robin’s sees quite a few of the other council members shiver. She doesn’t know why. Father’s voice is  _ calming _ , not  _ scary _ . “Surely we can discuss the matter of a new ruler without devolving into such…beasts.” The High Council does not take offence at Father’s choice of words, and Robin is glad for that even as she sees some of the men and women looking at her father almost…like they think he isn’t telling them something.

“It would appear that you have something in mind, Lord Hierophant,” says one woman whom Robin does not recognize.

A man in the row of seats behind her agrees. “If you believe that there is a suitable replacement, you should say so, Lord Validar.”

Robin feels Aversa’s breath hitch at the address, hears her sister mutter, “My, how rude” but she doesn’t understand how the man has been rude. It is true that Father is called Lord Validar. That’s just his name. 

Is it rude, she wonders, to call another person by their name? As if reminding her that there are rules about this sort of thing, Henry’s father half-sneers in the direction of the man who’d used Father’s name. Tharja’s mother shakes her head and looks utterly displeased. Robin remembers; only Lord al Gharab and Lady al Asra can use her father’s name so casually. 

To everyone else, he must be addressed by his title of Lord Hierophant, or, at the very least, Lord al Gimurei.

Father smiles, but not in the way he usually does when they are at home or in the temple. This smile is  _ scary _ , and the man who’d spoken, who’d called Father by name, seats himself and looks away. Robin wonders why, but she knows that she must listen to Father when he speaks, so such wondering is cut short. “I do, in fact, believe that there are  _ many _ suitable replacements. However, we must think…logically about this.”

“Indeed, Lord al Gimurei,” says Henry’s father, and it is only now that Robin notices the way his hand sits on Henry’s shoulder. Heavily, she imagines, because her friend, so pale and small, looks absolutely dwarfed by the strong, dark hand pinning him to his seat. She can practically see the way the silk of his heavy robes rumples under Lord al Gharab’s hand, and she wonders if the big man had simply grabbed his son’s shoulder and tugged him close for the sake of looking more like a family man. “We must take all recent events into account, and must judge the current political climate most keenly. Do not you think so as well, Lady al Asra?”

“Indeed, I do,” says Tharja’s mother. She puts a hand on Tharja’s head, fiddling with the golden headpiece that the girl is always made to wear on special occasions. Robin sees Tharja’s pale eyes seek hers out and she smiles, blinking three times, slowly. It is a secret greeting of theirs. Tharja, rather bright despite being only three, repeats the blinks, and Robin is pleased with the small smile on the tiny girl’s face.

Tharja often looks sadder than not, and that’s upsetting because Robin thinks that people should be happy most of the time;  _ especially _ kids as young as they are.

A familiar hand strokes under her chin gently before coming up and settling atop her head, and Robin knows without really looking that it is Father. He smiles down at her the way she’s used to before turning back to the rest of the High Council, dark eyes gleaming like the wolves in Aversa’s stories. 

Robin looks up at her father without fear, because she is his daughter, and wolves do not harm their own.

That is what Aversa whispers to her as they look out into the collection of scattered faces. All that she knows, aside from the few faces she recognizes, is that this council is  _ full _ of wolves—people hungry for power and wealth—and Father is a leader amongst them. The closest thing the people have for a king right now, truth be told. Robin almost wants to ask why the High Council doesn’t just choose Father as their new king, but she knows better.

She’s too young to be taken seriously; too young to directly participate in the politics of her country. Asking why the High Council does not make her father their nation’s king would be deemed foolish and stupid. No, that is a question for the quiet of her room, at night, with only Aversa to hear her. 

Contenting herself with her necessary silence, Robin sits in her sister’s lap and continues to wait. 

She hears murmurs and mutters begin, but she does not understand the words anymore. The High Council speaks in the Old Tongue—something that, as Aversa had explained earlier in the year—is done in the presence of small children, to keep them from understanding things better suited to adult consideration.

“But they are hardly more than  _ babies _ ,” says one woman, slipping back into the modern dialect that Robin knows and understands.

“Mind your tongue,” says Father, his tone sharper than she’s used to. Robin isn’t surprised when the lady seats herself. “Aversa, dearest,” says Father, turning to them. “Would you please escort the children out for a moment? I fear that they must be getting rather bored, sitting here.”

“Of course, Father,” says Aversa, though the set of her lips tells Robin that her sister is not pleased with being relegated to childcare.

Robin feels herself being lifted into Father’s arms, and he whispers, “We are very close to our goal, my daughters,” before handing her back to her sister. She does not know what Father means by his words, but that’s alright. Robin can’t be expected to understand  _ everything _ that adults say. She certainly can’t be expected to remember her father’s goals either—as Hierophant and head of their house, he surely has dozens of goals to see realized.

She  _ thinks  _ she hears her name spoken in the Old Tongue—the only word of it that she knows—but Robin does not speak as Aversa takes her hand and walks out into the hallway, guiding the small group of young children of the High Houses out towards the courtyards. Robin notices that other children of Aversa’s age are not being made to leave, and she wonders what it must be like, staying with the adults and listening to arguments in the Old Tongue. She hears her name again, in a voice that does not belong to her father, but still, she does not raise the issue with Aversa.

Whatever is the matter, she is sure that Father will take care of it; he always does.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The children are not summoned back into the Hall of Deliberation even when the High Council has concluded for the day, and Robin stays curled up in Aversa’s lap in the shade as lords and ladies come out with their attendants, all eager to collect their children from the courtyard. Eager to leave the palace, which is empty now save for the servants awaiting the arrival of a new master. On one side rests Henry, curled up so that Aversa’s free hand strokes the pinkish white of his hair. On the other side rests Tharja, who has one hand wrapped in the fabric of Robin’s robe. One of Robin’s hands idly chases after the fine strands of the younger girl’s midnight hair.

It’s very comfortable.

So comfortable, in fact, that Robin starts sharply when Father approaches, flanked by Henry’s and Tharja’s parents. She’s been jolted out of a half-sleep, and wonders how long it has been since all the other children were taken home. Aversa says something to the five adults joining them under the shade. 

As always, she says, they are the last to leave.

“Of course, my child,” says Father, “It is my duty as Hierophant to bless the Hall of Deliberation after every meeting of the High Council.”

Aversa only smiles and nods and does not say a word. Robin wonders why the edges of her sister’s mouth are hard.

“Lord Validar,” says Henry’s father, “Do you think that the others will see things so clearly as we do?”

“What choice will they have, my old friend?” asks Father as he stoops to take Robin from Aversa’s lap. Her sister looks displeased at that for a moment before she smiles again—another false smile—and shifts, patting Henry and Tharja on the head not-quite-hard-enough to wake them. Their parents do the same, but absentmindedly. Robin alone has been taken into a parent’s warmth. “We have laid the foundation today, and in subsequent meetings we shall only need to strengthen our arguments.” Father’s beard tickles her face as he speaks, but she does not laugh. She’s used to the feeling.

Tharja’s mother smiles at Robin in her usual cold way, then peers down at Henry and Tharja. “Your daughter is our best chance, it would seem.” There is no malice in her voice, only a chilling undertone highlighting the fact of her statement. Robin has no clue what the woman means.

“I agree,” says Henry’s father. “It would make the most sense after all. We were certainly right to put Robin forward as our chosen candidate.”

Father smiles, gently brushing the hair back from Robin’s face. “How would you like that, my little one?”

“Like what, Father?” She feels Aversa’s presence, sees her sister watching their father closely. Why does she look angry?

“How would you like to be Queen of all Plegia one day, my little Robin?”

Robin blinks. How could she be a queen? Aversa’s eyes widen in shock, and Robin is scared; if her big sister is surprised, how is  _ she _ supposed to react? This is all very confusing. “Queen?”

“We would love for you to be our queen, little Robin,” says Tharja’s mother. 

Tharja’s father agrees in his sweet, birdsong voice, and he raises Tharja up so that Robin can look her friend in the eye. “I think that Tharja would be most pleased to one day call you her queen, little Robin.” As if in agreement, Tharja nods, though Robin is not sure if her friend is awake enough to have nodded purposefully.

Henry’s mother takes her son by the ruff of his neck, squeezing through layers of silk and cotton so tightly that Robin is sure she will find bruises on his fair skin come tomorrow. “This boy might not be much, but he would gladly serve a queen like you.”

Robin is confused. “How could I be queen, Father? I am no princess.”

Father and the other adults laugh. “Not yet, my girl, but you are a daughter of the sand; a true Plegian, and of noble stock. That is more than our last ruler could have said for his own lineage.”

“And what is more, you are young,” adds Tharja’s mother, caressing Robin’s chin with one sharp fingertip. “You can be taught to be a princess, dear girl. Did you know?”

“I can?”

“Yes,” says Henry’s father, and they all stand there, smiling at her, until Robin feels that she must speak if they are ever to go home.

She looks at Aversa, whose eyes are filled with love for her though some strange anger seems to have taken control of her sister’s mouth. “I think…that maybe ‘Versey should be the queen.” 

Aversa shakes her head fondly, taking Robin from their father’s arms. Father looks at them in amusement, and Robin doesn’t know why. Aversa is usually the one to carry her. “No, not me, my love,” says Aversa, making eye contact with the adults as she speaks. They seem to approve of that answer. “You are the best choice we have.”

“What abou’ you?” Robin does not like the thought of being queen without her sister by her side. She doesn’t know if she much likes the thought of being queen at all, but if the adults are all saying that she will be then she at least wants to know that she’ll have her sister. Robin loves her sister the most of anybody—even more than Father, though she’d never tell him so.

Aversa appears at a loss for words for a moment, until she looks at Father. What passes between them, Robin cannot say, but Aversa ‘s smile, when she looks back into Robin’s eyes, is real. “Why, every queen needs a hierophant by her side. Is that not right, Father?”

Father’s teeth, the sharp ones, seem to glint in the light when he smiles—baring them, she thinks idly, like the wolves in the stories. “My clever girl, you are absolutely right.”

Lord al Gharab laughs deeply, the sound swallowed by the surrounding sands. “It would appear that House al Gimurei will not lose either of its daughters.” 

Robin does not know why that sounds so scary. Why would either she or Aversa have been lost?

“And it would never have,” snaps Lady al Asra, staring at the large man until his laughter dies away. “We told you that Aversa would understand. You do understand us, don’t you, dear?”

Aversa only looks at Tharja’s mother, cradling Robin’s body against her own so that Robin is turned away from them all. She is silent for a while, and Robin can feel the flex and release running through Aversa’s frame. She’s still tense, but is fighting it. Doing her best to hide…discomfort? “I do, Lady al Asra. I understand perfectly.”

They do not speak after that, each vanishing down the familiar pathways to their homes, and Robin allows the motion of Aversa’s footsteps to lull her into restfulness. She has not forgotten the questions running through her mind from earlier, but now, with Father walking by their side, is not the right time. 

* * *

  
  
  


Later that night, as her sister brushes her hair, she asks, “Why doesn’t the High Council make Father ‘da king?”

Aversa stares at her for only a moment before heaving a sigh. “Because Father…is frightening. And the High Council has decided that the best way to repair Plegia and her people is to choose a ruler who is  _ not _ frightening. Somebody who will be looked upon as non-threatening on the global stage.”

Robin doesn’t understand everything that her sister has just said, but she gets the gist of it, she thinks. “But all ‘da lords and ladies are scary.”

“And that’s why they want it to be you, darling,” says Aversa. “Because you’re far, far too young, you’ll need a regent. Most likely, it will be Father, but  _ you _ will be the one the world recognizes as our ruler.”

“I’m jus’ a little girl.”

“I know,” says Aversa, cupping Robin’s face in her hands. “But there’s…something wrong. About all of this. And I don’t know what it is.”

Robin does not know if she has ever seen her sister appear so frightened. “What’s wrong, ‘Versey? Why you scared?”

“I worry for you, little bird,” says her sister. “But I want you to know that no matter what, I will  _ always _ keep you safe.”

“From Ylisse?”

“From everyone.” Aversa takes her up into her arms, but Robin hears the missing words in her sister’s sentence. “From  _ Father _ ”, her sister had meant to say.

Robin wonders why.

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


One month later, she is seated on the Plegian throne, the thin layers of a ceremonial robe barely enough to protect her baby-soft skin from the heat of the black stone beneath her. She is named Robin al Gimurei, mistress of the Black Throne, and her sister—who stands faithfully at her side—is pronounced the future hierophant of the Grimleal. Their father, who stands at Robin’s other side with his wolfish grin on his face, is named Lord Regent.

They move into the palace.

They begin to study intensely.

She is joined only by Aversa, Henry, and Tharja.

And that is how Robin’s life as the Child Queen of Plegia begins.


	2. Prelude to Eternity

If anyone were to ask her when the dreams began, she would answer them truthfully.

Her dreams of prophecy, of power, began on the same night she first sat atop the Plegian throne, struggling under the weight of the desert moon and a heavy circlet of gold.

Shaking herself awake against the desert chill, Robin sighs. She had been little more than a baby when the dreams began, a mere child of four years old. "Ten years of nightmares plague me in my hours of rest. Will it never end?"

"Perhaps it will," comes a rich voice's reply, "I am more curious as to whether you will ever cease to speak with such poetic affectations when you know that I am near."

She laughs, hugging the thin silk of her nightdress to herself as her sister steps into the room. The door clicks closed behind Aversa's svelte frame, and Robin's fears leave her, afraid to plague her further in the presence of Aversa's shadow. "Does it not amuse you, sister mine?"

Aversa shakes her head, fondness in her gaze. "If it were anyone but you, dearest, I would have long silenced such silliness."

"How casually you do speak of murder, Aversa," says Robin, though she cannot keep the laughter from her lips. "We have grown true to the expectations of our court."

Aversa's pout makes her appear younger than her one-and-twenty years. "We have far surpassed any such expectations, don't you think?" Her eyes remain as they usually are, dark-lidded and guarded except for the very obvious love for Robin that fills the young queen with warmth. "Are you nervous for where the 'morrow sees you, my beloved little sister?"

She is referring, of course, to Robin's Ylissean _ vacation _, if one could call it such a thing.

Is she nervous? Perhaps. She is not anxious, because she goes without malice in her intentions and her thoughts. She is not excited, because she does not know what to expect from Exalt Emmeryn. She is not sure that she feels anything toward her impending summer in Ylisstol.

"I cannot say if I am nervous or not, truthfully. I do not believe I know how to feel about what tomorrow will bring." She tries for a smile, surprised to find that she cannot summon one large enough to meet her eyes. "Perhaps I am a shade fearful, but surely that is the most logical thing."

"Our two nations admittedly do not have the best shared history," Aversa says, motioning for Robin to sit back upon her bed. Robin does not ask why; one of her sister’s hands grasps a comb, inlaid with pearls. She sits, turning so that both she and Aversa can watch the breeze rolling over the desert sands. "Still Exalt Emmeryn seems a most wise and benevolent individual, don't you think? Truly, she is perhaps the most inspiring figure to stand upon the world stage of late."

Robin allows herself a moment to laugh as her sister's weight spreads over the bed. The comb glides smoothly across her scalp, whispering through thick white waves of hair so gently it is almost as if Aversa were guiding it through nothing more substantial than air. "You know Father would hate to hear you say such a thing."

"Perhaps he would," Aversa agrees, voice lilting with every stroke of the comb in her hand. "Thankfully, you and I are not concerned with pleasing him."

"Indeed," Robin murmurs. "Have you made any headway with the High Council?"

"A little. Not as much as I would have liked, but I will be able to make more progress while you are away."

"Is Tharja terribly upset?"

Aversa's rich laugh coats the entire room. "Of course she is. I'll admit, I'm surprised you opted to travel alone. Even Father would have been understanding if you had asked to bring Tharja with you."

"I couldn't do that to Henry," she says. "You and I both know what would happen to him if both Tharja and I were to leave. And for the whole summer…"

Aversa's hand stills, and Robin can feel her sister's chin on her shoulder. For a moment they simply sit, watching the desert. It feels as it always has. Warm. Safe. "You know that I would not forsake one whom we hold so dear."

Robin turns slightly, so that she can catch her sister's eye. "I know you would not…but your duties would demand it of you all the same. They would keep you from being with him, always."

"Have things truly become so bad for him?"

"Ever since he came home from that—that _ abomination _ of a school." She feels herself shake with her rage; Henry's mother and father had tired of him and his uniqueness shortly after Robin’s coronation, and had punished him for it every day of his life. Sending him away to that absolute farce of an academy of magic had been unforgivable. "He hasn't been the same since he returned."

Aversa grunts somewhere within her throat. "I still say you should have let me deal with that wicked headmaster."

"You know we cannot act against any open supporters of Father's," Robin says. "And besides, if worse comes to worst, General Mustafa has agreed to watch over him. He'll be made to enlist in the army before long." She sighs as soon as the words have left her mouth. The mandatory conscription of noble sons and daughters is only one of the many things she would like to change. The mandatory conscription of magic-users as young as twelve years of age is even worse. "I wish I were a true queen already, more than just a figurehead."

"In my eyes, you have always been a true queen, darling. Rest assured you will be a great ruler, when the time comes, and Plegia will rise out of the infamy that Gangrel and Father have brought her to." She sounds surer than Robin feels.

"If only I were older, if only the seven years keeping me from the throne were gone already!"

Aversa moves away slightly, allowing Robin to lean against the dark wood of her headboard. Robin watches her sister's face; there is something that she is not saying. "Do not be in such a rush to grow past your adolescence, my dearest sister. With age comes more power, certainly, but so too comes responsibility. Responsibility, compromise, and sacrifice." Abruptly, as if stung, she rises.

"'Versey?" It is childish, Robin knows, and most unbecoming of a young woman of fourteen, but using her sister's childhood pet name is comforting, at least to her.

"My apologies, darling, but I've business to attend to that I'd forgotten." It would be a flimsy excuse from someone else, but the way that her sister looks is enough to convince Robin that Aurora is telling the truth. "You need rest, Robin. A long trek lies ahead of you." 

Robin slips under her sheets, her own obedience slightly off-putting. "You will see me off tomorrow, won't you?"

"Of course I will," says Aversa. She leans down, planting a kiss on Robin's forehead. "I love you, little Robin."

Knowing that they will not be given another chance to speak alone again, Robin says, with total sincerity, "I love you, Aversa."

Her sister's fond smile watches over her, soothing during an otherwise troubling night.

The next morning, though it feels like mere minutes later, Robin is walking away from her sister's tight embrace and into Tharja's trembling arms. Her father watches, his usual level of neutrality evident in his posture and expression though his youngest child will soon be deep within the homeland of his enemy. She ignores him, instead focusing on Tharja, on the way the thirteen year old's periwinkle eyes gleam with her spilled tears. "You promised you would be brave for me, remember?"

"I'm trying," Tharja whimpers, in a voice that sounds altogether too small and too frail to belong to the fierce little heiress of House al Asra. "You're to be gone for so long."

"Only two months. I'll be home before you have the chance to miss me," Robin says. She would say more, but she knows that she cannot afford to spend much more time here. "Take care of yourself and Henry, my sweet Tharja. I love you both."

Tharja smiles, stifling a sob, and her grip on Robin tightens before she finally lets go. "I love you," the younger girl murmurs, "I'll keep Henry safe while you're away."

Robin presses a kiss to the other girl's cheek, giggling to herself as Tharja's pale skin burns a deep red. Aversa's eyes soften as she watches the exchange, but Robin does not have time to question why her sister looks so vulnerable. She exchanges fast pleasantries with Henry's parents, knowing that they had most likely kept him home on purpose. To punish him for some minor infraction that they would have easily let slide for other people's children.

"Fare thee well, Your Majesty," rumbles Lord al Gharab.

"My thanks for your kind wishes," she replies as she and Lady al Gharab kiss the air around each other. "Do send my love to my dearest Henry."

"That you would spend a kind thought on my worthless boy speaks volumes of your kindness. Truly, you are a paragon of excellence, my queen."

Robin does not know how to respond to such words, and so she merely curtsies and turns toward the carriage. The sound of Tharja's sniffling causes her to turn as soon as she has been seated. She's both surprised and pleased to see Aversa with her arm thrown, somewhat gingerly, about Tharja's shoulders. The sight of them, and of her father and Tharja's mother smiling at each other, is the last thing she sees before the carriage brings her away.

She is not afraid of spending her summer in Ylisstol, but she does fear the loneliness that has already gripped her.

* * *

  
  


Such is the thought that takes hold of her throughout the long carriage ride, the only thing keeping her company as the sands part around the carriage wheels. She is alone now.

Her melancholy is dispelled a while later, by her carriage driver.

They are at the border, taking a final break before entering Ylisse.

"We will be arriving shortly, Your Majesty," says the weathered man, and Robin smiles at him as kindly as she can. "I apologize for the roughness of your journey thus far."

"You have been wonderful, good sir. Take this in addition to what my father has paid you, for excellent service to the Plegian Crown." She hands him a coin purse; small, but full to the point that the tie cannot close completely. Aversa had mentioned how little their father intended to pay the man, and had she done nothing, the driver would not have been fairly compensated.

He takes a moment to simply stare, obviously stunned. He had been prepared to accept criminal underpayment, and it shows. Robin is appalled and angered, completely disappointed in her father's actions as Lord Regent. "One does not hear word of you aside from your appearances at the temple, Your Majesty, but, if you would permit a humble servant of Plegia to speak…" he trails off, eyes shining with a beseeching light.

"Please, good sir, be at ease to speak with me."

He smiles, leathery skin creasing the corners of his mouth. "I know I speak for many of us common folk when I say that we shall all be well and truly pleased once the regency is over."

She nods, thoughtful. She had known that the commoners were not pleased with her father's reign as Lord Regent, but to hear confirmation is heartbreaking. Robin knows now that her life as Plegia's Child Queen had been orchestrated to cover up a power grab by her father, but that does not help to ease her anger.

The sooner she becomes queen, the better for her nation and her people.

"I thank you for your honesty, good sir. Rest assured, I am not blind to the injustices my father has allowed against the common people of Plegia. Once my power as queen is realized, I swear that I shall do all I can to correct such horrible grievances.

He smiles at her again as he helps her back into the carriage. "When it comes from your lips, Your Majesty, I cannot help but to believe you."

She takes heart from his words, and his confidence in her is enough of a gift that she does not feel her loneliness anymore. As the lands around her show signs of life beyond the desert, she tries her best to relax, though the sight of a man on a wyvern, undoubtedly a _special_ escort of her father's, does sour the sentiment somewhat. Her entourage is not far behind, though there appears to have been some trouble with their horses, as the team is now comprised of one black and one roan, instead of the pair of roans they'd started the journey with. Absently, she wonders at the fate of the poor, injured horse, but it's ultimately not something that would be worth a follow-up.

The journey through the desert takes more out of her than she'd have thought, and on the fourth day—or perhaps it is the fifth—she implores one of her ladies in waiting to ride the rest of the way with her. She's a young, nervous girl, really, the third daughter of an unimportant house, but she's kind and the least likely to be another of her father's spies, and Robin is truly appreciative of the company as five days turns into six, then seven, then eight and more. Even as the carriage loses its sandy surroundings in favour of grassy hills and thick, lush forestry, she keeps heart. Robin cannot help the slight trembling of excitement that passes through her as she takes in the vibrant greens. Truly, she is not in Plegia any longer.

* * *

The thought only cements itself almost two weeks later, as she steps out of the carriage onto Ylissean soil. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the magnificent palace doors stands Exalt Emmeryn herself, and Robin curtsies politely. She does not remove her eyes from the young woman's. "My thanks for your kind invitation, Your Grace. I am honoured to be spending the summer in your fair country."

Exalt Emmeryn's face is radiant, her smile the very picture of benevolence as she places a hand upon Robin's arm. "My thanks for your kind acceptance, Your Majesty. I had hoped you would be willing to visit with us this summer; admittedly, the Lord Regent did not appear too pleased to hear my offer."

Robin does not allow herself to smile; she has plans for her country, and allying with the other nations of the world is a priority of hers, if not of her father's. That doesn't mean she needs to appear open and honest and easily amused. Not yet, at any rate. "I feel I must apologize to you once again, Your Grace. My father is often misguided in his intentions, though he believes himself to act always in accordance both with my own wishes and with the needs of our fellow Plegians."

The look in the Ylissean Exalt's eyes is knowing and so _ very _ familiar. It reminds Robin so very much of Aversa, and she stifles a small sob before it can bubble up from her chest. "My father, too, often thought he knew what would be best for me, and our fellow Ylisseans often suffered for his choices. Though we are not in any ordained court, I would extend our apology to Plegia for the hatred and barbarity afforded her during my father’s reign."

Exalt Emmeryn offers Robin a pale, slim hand. Robin smiles and takes it without hesitation, knowing what doing so will mean not only for their two countries, but for the world entirely. "Plegia accepts, and extends an apology of her own to Ylisse, for the carnage and the ire visited upon her during the time of he who came before me."

They smile at each other, sharing a laugh. If only it were so easily settled.

Robin's smile grows when Emmeryn leads her up the stairs, though she does feel a pang of sadness as the carriage driver rides away. "Now, would you like to rest for a while before we eat?"

"Oh please, do not make changes in your schedule for me, Your Grace." She shakes her head, hoping that she does not seem impatient or insincere in any way. With a gesture toward the three ladies-in-waiting and the acolyte her father had sent, she adds, "Though my people would be grateful for the opportunity to rest after the journey." She glances back at them, daring any of them to insist on staying at her side. 

"Please, call me Emmeryn," the Exalt says, her charming smile as bright as the sunlight streaming through the high glass windows. "And certainly, that can be arranged. I'll have them shown to their quarters." She stops, then adds, "They're as close to you as I could arrange it, but if you would like to have someone set up in the room beside yours, I can make that arrangement, too."

"Of course, I'll be sure to let you know if that becomes a necessity. And please, my name is Robin," she says in kind.

Emmeryn's head dips in a serene nod before she says, completely sincere, "There is not much of a schedule during the summer months. Though I am frequently busy, I try to afford my siblings as much freedom as I can. Would you like to meet them now? Are you sure you would not prefer to sleep a while?"

"I am more eager to explore than I am tired, if that is all the same, Emmeryn."

"I see. Both my brother and sister are looking forward to meeting you."

"I would love that," Robin says, and her earnest tone is a surprise even to herself. She has not had the chance to spend time with other children aside from Henry and Tharja. "Your brother is only a few years my junior, is he not?"

Emmeryn's tranquil smile is a beautiful sight, indeed. "Yes, he is. And Lissa is very young, but very active for her small size." She guides Robin through the hallways, pausing every so often to answer a question about a painting, or to point out some lovely flowers. They come to a stop at a tall arch. On the other side, Robin can see a lush and vibrant garden. "They should be just through here."

Emmeryn takes her had as they step through the arch, and Robin is greeted by deep greens and luscious reds, pinks, blues, and golds. The flowers are magnificent, unlike anything she has ever seen before. Robin is only able to hold back her awed gasp after noticing that she and Emmeryn are not alone. "Hello," she says, in the unified language of the continent. She can hear the influence of her lilting mother tongue, though she notes that, if anything, the children before her like the sound. "My name is Robin. It is a great pleasure to meet you."

"Chrom, Lissa, introduce yourselves to Robin, please," Emmeryn says, and both the children smile at her before turning their open, curious gazes to Robin.

As Robin expects, the boy speaks first. If she remembers correctly, he is twelve years of age, two years her junior, and taller than her already. She likes the blue of his eyes. "My name is Chrom, prince of the halidom of Ylisse. I am glad to meet you, Queen Robin of Plegia." He looks very stern and serious for all of three seconds, before a large grin breaks out on his face. "Was that okay, Emm?"

Emmeryn rewards him with a proud smile and a nod, and Robin cannot help but be reminded of her sister yet again. Missing Aversa, and worrying for Henry and Tharja…such will be her greatest challenges. "Lissa?"

Lissa is absolutely adorable and far, far smaller than Robin can remember herself being at eight years of age. "I’m Lissa. You have pretty hair, Robin."

Robin can't help it; she laughs, high and clear, and kneels down to look little Lissa in the eye. "Than you, Your Highness. Your hair is far lovelier than mine." And truly, the young girl's sun-spun locks are beautiful.

"Thanks, Your Majesty," the girl says, smiling so widely that Robin can see the places where the girl has lost her first few teeth. "You're very nice. I like you lots."

Robin wonders at that; how a child with no knowledge of her could say such a thing. As if able to read her mind, Emmeryn nods toward her sister and says, "Lissa is a wonderful judge of character. She can see the beautiful souls of the people around her. Isn't that right, my love?"

"Yeah!"

Not one to be aced out of the conversation, as it would appear, Chrom adds, "Lissa and I know better than to judge based on where people come from, 'cause Emmeryn taught us so."

Robins nods, slightly overwhelmed by the warmth of their reception of her. "That's kind, and a very admirable quality to have." She waits for a moment, allowing their eager welcome a while longer before she says, "Now, I hope you will not think me rude, but I have been seated for many long hours. Would you mind terribly if I asked for a tour? This is my first time out of Plegia."

Surprisingly, Lissa leaps at the chance to take Robin's hand and proclaims herself Robin's tour guide. Chrom follows closely behind his sister, smiling shyly at Robin all the while. It looks as if Emmeryn will join them, but their small party is stopped by the appearance of a young man in silver-grey armour. "My apologies for the intrusion, Your Grace, but the curate is looking for you. Apparently, your presence is requested at a meeting of the clergy."

"Ah, yes, they did mention to me that they would be moving the meeting up." Emmeryn's lips purse in a small, sad pout, though it is quickly replaced by her calm smile. "Frederick, would you please escort Robin, Chrom, and Lissa on their tour of the palace?" Her expression is soft and reassuring, and though the young man looks upon Robin most warily, he does not object.

"Of course, Your Grace. Shall I see you to the meeting hall before that?"

"No, I should be fine. Mind Frederick, my darlings," Emmeryn says, bending to kiss Chron;s and Lissa's heads. “And Robin, dear, please feel at ease here. You are our honoured guest."

"My thanks Y—Emmeryn," she says, surprised to feel a warm blush on her cheeks. Outside of her own sister, older women have never been so kind to her; not without wanting something, at least. Not kind without suggesting at…_ more _. In many senses of the word.

While it would be foolish to assume that Emmeryn does not want something of her, she cannot help but feel that the woman is being perfectly genuine.

With one final parting smile and nod, Emmeryn turns, and they all stand stock-still, watching her graceful departure. It’s only once she is out of sight that the tranquil silence of the garden gives way to Lissa's excited shout. "Tour start!" She drags Robin towards the entryway, veering off in the opposite direction from where Emmeryn had gone. "Nothing down that way, Robbi!"

Everyone freezes. The knight is the first to react, kneeling down to look Lissa in the eye. "Now, princess, I understand that you are excited, but you must remember your manners. It does not do to try and pull your guests about. And you must always remember that visiting royalty is to be treated with the utmost respect."

She doesn't know quite what possesses her to speak up so soon, but she's so quick to reply that the words have barely left the knight's mouth. "Your kindness and propriety is much appreciated, sir knight, but rest assured I see no disrespect in the princess's chosen address of me, nor am I offended by such enthusiasm." She tries for a smile in the stoic young man's direction, surprised when he actually returns the gesture, albeit in a more guarded manner. "And, Princess Lissa," she says gently, turning to the small girl, "I must admit, I am surprised only because I have never been given that nickname before. If you would like to continue using it, I see no reason why I cannot allow it."

"Yay! Thank you Robbi!" Lissa cheers, and her smile is so bright and so warm that it cheers Robin's heart. "You can just call me Lissa!"

"A-and you can just call me Chrom, if you want," says the young prince, his shy smile a charming addition to his face.

Robin laughs, pleased at how openly friendly the Exalt's siblings have so far proven themselves to be. "Thank you Chrom, you may call me Robin, or Robbi, whatever you feel most comfortable using." She waits for the prince's reply before turning once more to their companion. He cannot be older than the Exalt, but there is a certain sternness on his handsome face which makes him appear very mature.

"My apologies, sir knight. I know that Her Grace named you, but I would introduce myself if you are amenable. I am Robin, queen of Plegia. What is your name, if I may know it?"

The knight considers her for a moment, shrewd eyes watching the way that she watches him. She gets the distinct feeling that he is appraising her, and after another beat he bows, lips brushing faintly against her knuckles as he takes one of her hands in a chivalrous motion. "Frederick, of House Forte, milady. I do apologize if I come across as brusque. Acceptance of others does not yet come to me so easily as it does to my young wards." When he releases her hand and straightens, she sees a gleam of kindness in his eyes. "I look forward to learning of the new era of Plegians," he adds. She cannot help but like him. He does not trust her yet, perhaps, but that he is willing to try is enough for her. The more friends she can make in Ylisstol, the better.

Lissa tugs on her hand, clearly bored of the pleasantries, and then they are off again. In a matter of mere minutes she is toured through the "boring bits" of the castle, and though Lissa explains much of the interior design through her own eyes, Robin is able to glean bits of information from both Chrom and Frederick. The history of Castle Ylisstol is long and storied, and she feels strangely comforted in the well-lit hallways. She wants to learn more, simply to learn.

The rest of the afternoon passes by in a pleasant haze, and it is only until after a simple, yet sumptuous meal that Robin remembers that she had sent a horse to Ylisstol ahead of her.

"Emmeryn, would it be alright if I ventured to the stable to check on Sabine? I'd nearly forgotten about her."

Emmeryn chuckles behind her hand, graceful as ever. "Of course. Would you like me to send someone along with you to the stables?"

Once again, Robin is astounded at the level of trust that Emmeryn has already given to her. It would be nice for a little alone time, though, just her and Sabine. "If it is well, I think I would like to go alone."

"Of course," Emmeryn says, "Will you be well finding your way to your rooms once you have finished?"

She nods. Frederick had, very kindly, shown her how to get to the correct hallway from various entrances.

"I should be fine. Thank you for your kindness, Emmeryn."

"You needn't thank me so much, Robin, dear," croons the young woman. "If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to let me know. You will be here for quite a while, and I would like you to be comfortable."

Robin smiles and bids the three Ylissean royals a good night, nodding at the ever-watchful Frederick as she passes. She allows herself to meander through the hallways at a nearly aimless pace, though she makes sure to keep her steps focused toward the stables all the same.

The atmosphere of Castle Ylisstol, with it's cream and green colours and its gentle ambience, is so different from her own home. It feels not just like a castle, a historic seat of power, but like a _ home _. She cannot place why, but it is so full of warmth.

She picks her way through the halls with relative ease, a quirk of memory enabling her to make the trip without confusion. The night air is cool, but nothing at all like the sharp frigid air of her familiar desert nights. She breathes in deeply, taking in much of the sweet strange air into her lungs. Everything is so very, very different.

All told, she rather likes it.

The stables are clean and obviously well cared-for, and she takes a moment just to admire the orderly look of things. Lissa had rushed their little tour group past the stables, citing other, far more interesting sites to see. Robin marvels at the fine carvings around the stable doors. Carefully crafted horses, pegasi, and alicorns fly up to greet her hands, followed by griffons and wyverns done in the most impeccable detail.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

Robin turns slowly, never one to appear skittish around strangers. "Yes, very. The one who did all of this was an extremely talented hand, indeed." She smiles at the girl who'd addressed her, wondering if she should introduce herself first

Apparently the girl is enough in the proverbial loop to know who she is, because her eyes widen almost comically as she takes in Robin's cloud-white hair. "My apologies, Your Majesty. How rude of me not to introduce myself!" The girl—she looks around Robin's age, perhaps only a year or two younger—smiles and curtsies very prettily. "I am Cordelia, of House Lysandre, and it is my honour to meet you."

Robin waits for the girl to straighten up before she bows in the style of her homeland. "Do not trouble yourself, Lady Cordelia, for I have taken no offense. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Robin of House al Gimurei."

"If I might be so bold, Your Majesty," the other girl begins, "they call you the Young Queen of Plegia, but do you not introduce yourself as such?"

Robin's only response is to blink. She hasn't used her title, has she? Aversa's lilting voice plays in her head, _ "Little Robin, forgetting your manners? Something about this one must have you frazzled." _

"Have I offended you, Your Majesty?"

"No, not at all milady," she says, surprised to find that the other girl speaks much like an adult, as she does. "And please, do feel at ease. I am no queen of yours. My name should suffice, and I feel that it is I who must apologize, if anything; I normally do not forget my own title."

Cordelia smiles at her, offers a chaste little laugh, and Robin does her best to ignore the teasing in her head. It's quite possibly too forward a move, but titles do so get in the way of making new acquaintances feel comfortable, and all the pleasantries are rather distasteful to her. "I shall call you Robin, then, if that truly is alright. What brings you to the stables this evening?" Cordelia's smile is so bright even in the dim evening glow.

"I came to see my horse, Sabine. She's been here for a week or so now, I believe."

"Oh! Her name is Sabine?" Cordelia beckons Robin into the stables, and Robin follows behind the younger girl without a second thought. "I was wondering about her. She's absolutely beautiful. I've never seen a mount quite so fine." Cordelia comes to a stop outside of one of the roomy, well-kept pens, and Robin coos appreciatively as her hand finds Sabine's snout.

"It appears I owe a great deal of gratitude to whoever cared for her," she says, stroking a hand through Sabine's fine black mane. Robin turns at the little cough that comes from Cordelia's direction. The girl looks embarrassed.

"I hope I did well. I was not sure if her needs were all being addressed."

Robin smiles. "If you don't mind my saying so, you do not strike me as a stablehand." She pauses. "Though you did a tremendous job."

The girl flushes again, a pretty colour that lights up her pale face. "I'm not, not truly. I am of a minor house, and I work here in the stables as part of my training."

It is only then that Robin registers the simple, padded leather of the girl's clothes; breathable and fitted to Cordelia's lanky frame, but clearly standard-issue. "Are you looking to become a knight, Lady Cordelia?"

"Just Cordelia, please," says the other girl, her blush almost a match for her fiery hair. "If all goes well in my training, I hope to join the ranks of the Pegasus Knights."

Something in Robin stirs, and one again she hears her sister's well-intentioned laughter in her head. "My sister is a Pegasus Knight. You are a very brave young lady."

Cordelia shakes her head again. "I'm nothing so grand as that." A blush rises on her fine skin for the third time. After a moment, she calms herself. "Shall I leave you to look her over, or…?"

Robin is surprised with herself; she'd never thought she could so readily smile at a stranger. "I do not mind at all. If I'm right, you did have business here as well, did you not?"

"My thanks." She busies herself with the roan mare directly to Sabine's left at that, leaving Robin to nuzzle and coo her dear steed.

Robin strokes the length of Sabine's head, pausing to gently scratch behind the horse's ear. She's missed her mare greatly during their weeklong separation. "You look well, dear friend."

Sabine nickers gently, bumping her snout against Robin's open palm. They stay that way for a while, until Robin is satisfied that Sabine has been comforted by her presence. She pulls away with some reluctance, whispering a few gentle words. When she is able to look away from Sabine, she spots Cordelia, still hard at work on a horse in the pens opposite them.

"When do you retire?" It is a forward question.

"I must finish caring for all the horses in this stable," Cordelia says, eyes focused on the brown charger she is grooming. "It is my turn this month, and I would not want to neglect any of them." She turns to Robin, eyes shining. She has the look of one who works to avoid being idle.

Robin gets the feeling that this is not Cordelia's first visit to the stables tonight. "They should be fine until tomorrow. If I might be so bold, I do not think it wise for you to exhaust yourself. You clearly work more than well enough without needing to practice such overexertion."

She's been watching Cordelia after all, and marvelling at the speed, accuracy, and care with which the younger girl tends to her charges. To her, Cordelia seems more efficient than a good number of cadets with far more years of practical experience. The girl will do well taking care of pegasi too, from the looks of it.

The redhead finishes with the charger. "I have nothing left to do. I suppose retiring for the night would be best." Cordelia shakes out her arms and legs. She's younger, most likely, perhaps even so young as ten or eleven now that Robin can see her face a little better, but already she's the taller of the two of them by a good head. "Shall I escort you to your guest room, Robin?"

Struck with how _ adult _ the younger girl sounds, Robin agrees. Cordelia is a perfect guide, and after confirming a few details about the hallway outside of Robin's quarters, she leads the way without any difficulties. The trip is filled with surprisingly good conversation, and by the end of it Robin comes to a startling conclusion.

She wants to be this girl's friend.

The thought follows her as she washes up in the generously appointed en suite. IT follows her even as she slips under the strange, but soft Ylissean sheets. Robin lies awake, unused to the night sounds of a different palace from the one in which she has spent most of her life.

That she wants to be a young pegasus knight cadet's friend… It means something, or it _ will _ mean something.

She just cannot say what.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been bouncing around in my head for a while and it's supposedly going to be a series of four longfic. We'll see how that goes.
> 
> If you want to make any suggestions, have any questions, or just want to yell/talk to me about this or anything else, you can catch me [ on Tumblr ](https://lazywritergirl.tumblr.com) or [ on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/LWGKay)


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